A Handful of Dust
by knit-wear
Summary: Evil has always brewed in the bowls of Arkham Asylum—all it needed was a little push. Crane/Harley/Joker - Harley is determined to get the Joker's case & Crane is feeling drawn more and more towards the Scarecrow than ever. Corruption, madness & sex,
1. Chapter 1

Note: I'm re-writing this because I felt like the first chapter was really lame and I should have gone over it more before putting it up. So, since I'm nearly done with A Fairly Honorable Defeat and The Harlequin is pretty much permanently on hold, I wanted to start something with Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow because Cillian Murphy's a babe and The Scarecrow is an incredibly complex character I want to elaborate on. For this story my Harley is ruthless, brilliant and incredibly selfish and she poses a virile threat to the Joker herself.

Summery: Evil has always brewed in the bowls of Arkham Asylum—all it needed was a little push. Crane/Harley/Joker—but not a love triangle—they're all far to self obsessed for that.

x

A Handful of Dust

1.

A walk down the hall of Arkham Asylum at night would be enough reason for most psychiatrists to stay clear of the institution. The inmates wail in their sleep—if they're capable of sleep—in the darkness the empty corridors echo with the sounds of tortured souls trapped within their own minds. Due to lack of funding the lighting at night alternates between flickering—on and off like an erratic clock—or simply casting dim shadows across the plexiglass windows of the patients' cells.

Harley walked down the main corridor of the west wing, her red stiletto heels clacking loudly in the deserted hall. She had been warned that Arkham was a terrifying place to work—the dusty Gothic architecture out of date and threatening—whatever fool decided to implement Gargoyles in the construction of a mental institution either had a twisted sense of humor or was himself completely senseless.

Personally, Harley enjoyed the building at night. One learned to block out the patients' screams, the fear being replaced by irritation that their doctor hadn't prescribed enough sedative to keep them sleeping through the night. She liked the solitude—she felt as if she were in charge of the place rather than that idiot Jeremiah Arkham. She scoffed just thinking about him. He wasn't passionate about his work—he only saw the institution as a place to house criminals who couldn't handle life in prison or the outside world. He didn't see the opportunities that provided.

Inmates were not in Arkham to be cured or house, in her opinion. They were to be studied.

Presently she was striding up to his office; all doctors on call had been paged to the fifth floor where all of the _important_ doctors' offices were. Including her own.

Harley slid into an elevator and using the key from a heavy chain attached to her hip, pressed the button for the fifth floor. The old gates closed and the lift puttered upwards—always threatening to come crashing down to the basement in its' old age.

She shoved her hands in the pockets of her white lab coat, then pulled back her sleeve to look at her watch—2am. She generally did the night shifts which lasted from four until midnight—but Jeremiah had asked her and Dr. Carver to stay later. Something about an exciting opportunity that she wouldn't want to miss.

Harley pushed her square black glasses up the bridge of her nose and considered this—so far since she'd been at Arkham she'd been published twice for her work with two especially intriguing cases. The first was when she'd managed to get her hands on Elizabeth Turner— a former ballet dancer turned psychopathic serial killer sex addict—something about the aesthetics of that case caught the American Medical Association's eye.

The second was on Dr. Jonathan Crane's fear toxin—which she'd written with him despite the fact that he was presently locked up in Arkham himself. But even so, the psychiatric world knew there was no one who came close to psychopharmacology like Crane—even if he did suffer from a Multiple Personality Disorder. Harvard University Press liked that study as well.

There were two kinds of doctors at Arkham—those who knew working there would further their career—and those who felt they could rehabilitate the criminally insane. It wasn't a big surprise which group ended up retiring early due to emotional stress.

The elevator doors rattled open upon reaching the fifth floor and Harley strode out, her footsteps echoing around the stone hallway. She watched her shadow flicker in dirty light across the floor, wondering vaguely how long it would be before she found her _big_ case.

She knew the fact that she was young, female and incredibly attractive was on her side—that did help somewhat although she didn't like to abuse it. As she saw it there was line between being aware that your looks affected people's perceptions of you, and using your sexuality to get people to do as you wanted. No, Harley was too vain for that—she preferred when male doctors assumed because she was a pretty woman she wasn't as capable—but then in most cases she could run intellectual circles around them.

Intellectual vanity. That was Harley's problem.

The light outside Dr. Arkham's office was out so Harley had to peer through the darkness in order to rap three times on his door before poking her head in. It was dimly lit as usual, and the mostly bald old man sat at his desk with a sour look on his face. Also in the room were two burly orderlies, two police officers, the police Commissioner whom Harley had seen on the television—Gordon, if she remembered correctly—and Dr. James Carver, the other psychiatrist on call that evening.

Carver was leaning against Jeremiah's desk lazily—he was only a few years older than Harley and like her was working at Arkham for his career, but unlike her actually believed he could _somehow_ make a difference in the world. As if writing a study on _another _paranoid schizophrenic—the most common visitors to Arkham's cells—was going to help someone. When he spoke it was with a sense of morality and good will that frequently made Harley have to turn away from him to hide the fact that she was rolling her eyes at his naivety.

"Good evening, Dr. Quinzel," Arkham said stiffly, still looking as if he were slightly nauseous. He gestured to the three police men behind him, "This is Commissioner Gordon, Sergeant Goodman and Sergeant Fox—" Arkham waved distractedly, "This is Dr. Harleen Quinzel, one of our most noted psychiatrists."

Harley noticed with a touch of joy that Carver flinched when he said that—apparently he wasn't _noted_.

"Good to meet you Doctor," the Commissioner said politely.

Harley closed the door behind her as she stepped further into the room. She slipped her hands into her lab coat again, "What's going on?" She asked bluntly, eyeing all five men at once. She stopped her gaze at Sergeant Fox—he was looking at her quizzically as if unsure why she was there. Interesting.

Jeremiah ran a hand over his bald head—a few thin strands remained which he'd combed over the side in order to give the appearance of not _entire_ baldness. He sighed. "Well, they've caught the Joker." He sighed again, "And they're bringing him here."

Harley's blue eyes popped wide open and she took a few short steps into the center of the room. Gordon was clearly the man she needed to be speaking to about this. "That's fantastic!"

Carver made a face that resembled Jeremiah's. They did not think it was fantastic, they thought it was taxing and irritating. She realized now that Jeremiah's 'An exciting opportunity you wouldn't want to miss' comment had been pure sarcasm. But he wasn't wrong.

"How is it fantastic," Carver asked her pointedly. "This is going to mean huge security measures—the man is a complete psychopath."

Harley sent him a withering look. "This is a mental institution, James. There are a lot of psychopaths here."

"Dr. Quinzel, the Joker is indeed a bit of a special case," Gordon said tiredly, "He more or less lives to murder. Total chaos is his goal. He'll continue to try to do that even if it's within these walls." He knocked on the stone wall next to the desk to make a point. "This is going to mean _exceptionally_ huge security measures for you."

Harley pursed her lips and refrained from saying anything. Her obvious excitement at getting to work with an obviously brilliant psychopath who had made himself famous in a matter of weeks. Well, the study would get published of course—but personally—after watching those tapes he'd sent to the press and hearing that eerie voice on the news. Well just meeting him was something she would never pass up.

"You're sure you can't take him to county jail?" Arkham asked sullenly, as if he'd already suggested it and been turned down many times but Gordon shook his head solemnly.

"He's mentally unstable. Completely. Your facilities are much safer than county. Knowing him he'd have control over the entire facility within a day—a mass break out. No, he needs to be here. I'm sorry, Dr. Arkham."

"Let's get this over with," Jeremiah sighed again, getting to his feet and sliding his white lab coat on.

Harley blanched, "He's here now?"

"In an armored car on route," Gordon said, inclining towards the closed door, "But I suggest you're ready for him."

The orderlies were sent to retrieve two of their peers and wait near the entrance to the hospital while Gordon and the two police officers led the three psychiatrists towards the entrance where they were expecting the Joker at any minute. The mismatched group slipped through the shadowy halls quietly, and Harley was willing to bet even the big bad police officers were probably unnerved by the patients' occasional screams.

Gordon spoke over his shoulder as they hurried through the main hall, "He insists he doesn't have a name, we haven't got any records on him at all—so you're going to want to get something of the kind out of him." They turned a corner and again there was a light out—they were submerged in darkness but Gordon kept speaking. "Keep in mind, this man has murdered _many_ people in the last few weeks. Do not in anyway underestimate him."

They came to the main holding cell for new inmates. Normally it would only take two orderlies and a police officer to check the patient in—fill out some paperwork, take their personal belongings, issue them with a pair of scrubs and a cell depending on what level of security was necessary. The patient would then be taken to their cell and given solitary confinement for twenty four hours before any doctors saw them.

Obviously this was a somewhat different case. The area around the holding cell—made of a one way mirror—they could see him but he could not see you—was surrounded by the black clad S.W.A.T. team members and the white clad orderlies. The orderlies were trying to move the SWAT officers out of the building to create some kind of space to no avail. A thin rumble of conversation filled the entire room—no one seemed to be paying attention to the Joker.

When they moved in front of the glass Harley felt a thrill run down her spine at the sight of him. Long wiry legs clad in plum coloured trousers were kicked to the side almost flamboyantly—but his ankles were chained so it may have been for comforts' sake. He was missing the matching purple jacket Harley had seen on the news but a green patterned shirt and en emerald waistcoat remained. His clothes looked dirty and worn—he clearly hadn't taken them off in a long time.

She couldn't see his face clearly, for he had his chin on his chest, matted green-blonde hair covering what she hoped was the clown visage he always sported. Gordon moved out of the way so they three could go into the cell. Harley followed Arkham and Carver but was unable to take her eyes off the Joker's form. There was something so _real_ about him. The way the fabric of his waist coat creased along his side—it was real and absolutely terrifying that one man—one very real man could cause all the destruction that he did.

The trouped into the room one at a time and each sat on the three folding chairs laid out in front of him. He had his ankles chained together and then chained to the chair and his hands bent behind his back—Harley thought it looked extremely uncomfortable but then again—being blown up in a factory full of gasoline like Rachel Dawes was probably wasn't the most comfortable thing either.

She crossed her legs and watched him carefully, her heart pounding with excitement within her chest. She wanted to touch that bright green waist coat more than anything in the world then—there was power radiating off of him that she'd never experienced before.

"So," Arkham drew the word out like it was a curse and uncapped a fountain pen to begin to fill out the standard patient check in form. Harley hadn't even seen one of those forms since her internship—she almost felt respect for the man for being so notorious that the head of the asylum was filling it in for him.

"I'm Dr. Arkham, this is Dr. Carver and Dr. Quinzel." They sat like a team in white lab coats facing him, Arkham leaning back in his seat with a face full of disdain as he concentrated on getting his pen working; Carver, with both trousered legs planted firmly on the floor, his arms crossed, stretching the lab coat across his broad shoulders—staring the Joker down with a deep frown; and Harley sitting primly with her back straight and her legs crossed, her white hands folded in her lap neatly. They all had clipboards with fresh pieces of paper, waiting to write anything at all down—they were all in various states of hesitation.

Harley found herself wishing she had worn trousers instead of a pencil skirt.

"What is your name," Arkham asked dryly, already knowing he wouldn't be getting an answer, but rather something snappy and manipulative—something they would be smart enough to take in, analyze and throw back at him. Outside of the walls of Arkham he may have been a criminal mastermind—but inside, especially with two of his best doctors this psychopath didn't stand a chance. They were invariably smarter than him, and he knew especially Harley would be capable of dealing with his manipulation.

Slowly the Joker lifted his head, the green hair flopping back from his face to reveal white greasepaint smeared with two black circles around his eyes—it was creasing and caking—augmenting the lines and expressions of his face. The red mouth—the scars—the knotted uneven skin flashed crimson under the florescent lighting.

He opened his mouth, and licked his lips a few times, revealing a set of brown, rotting teeth. His eyes expressed a silent threat as he met Arkham's gaze, licking his lips again. After forty years of working with the criminally insane it took a lot to jog Jeremiah's senses—but that deathly glare did it.

"Good evening—_doctors_," he trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air. He looked around at all three of them, taking them in. There was the old one first; the Joker pegged him instantly as a jaded, slightly twisted geriatric who so far was _not_ afraid of him. Then the young, handsome one second; probably a good guy with a good wife—a football scholarship probably got him through medical school and he probably did _care_ about his patients. There would be a _reason _for him to choose criminal psychiatry like a schizophrenic brother. His perfectly proportioned face was a stone wall. Good acting.

Then there was the woman to the far left. Absolutely stunning with curly blonde hair right out of a shampoo commercial, bright blue eyes that he caught from across the room, and a willowy body that fit perfectly into the black skirt and blouse she was wearing under her lab coat. Then those shoes. Ah, shoes tell a lot about a person. Take his brown brogues for example—which they'd taken away—knives in the toes. That was him to a tee. This pretty little creature wore bright red stilettos to work at an insane asylum.

The Joker hazarded a guess that this meant she had a sense of power and superiority to her character—or at least that's what she told herself. Her face was blank as she stared him down just like the jock to her left. He stared back at her, challenging her to look away first but she simply offered a wry, patronizing smile.

Oh, that was not what he needed.

The Joker was not happy.

Gordon had told him what happened with Dent—what the Batman had done. Just thinking about it made his blood boil so strongly that he was sure he could rip his fists out of the handcuffs that bound him. And the first thing he would do was take _Dr Quinzel's _pretty little shoe and stab it through her forehead. And then Batman. Oh, something would have to be done there. The yin to his yang was a sore disappointment. Batman turned his wonderfully crafted Fallen Hero into Beloved Martyr just by taking on the blame for Dent's misdeeds.

He glanced away from the blonde doctor's face and down at her shoes again, unable to keep himself from glowering at them. A scowl pulled at his lips so when the old doctor asked him again what his name was he couldn't keep from snarling out loud—animalistic and completely uncontrolled. It didn't phase any of them.

"Fine," Arkham made a note, "The police have told us you refuse to give a name, age, or birthday. I'll just put a line through that." He drew the line and the Joker felt as if his head would explode by the scratching of the fountain pen—the fountain pen would go right through the old doctor's neck—easily.

Harley looked at the paper she'd been given, trying not to stare at the Joker anymore. He was—enthralling and terrifying. His eyes were so feral and dangerous it was—intoxicating was the first word to come to mind. She cleared her throat and read, "Height six feet and one inch, Weight one hundred-fifty pounds," she glanced up at the Joker, he was seething at her like an animal in a cage.

"Do you have any allergies?" Carver asked, his voice banal as he flicked through his copy of the Joker's file. When there was no response he pursed his lips and in the most patronizing tone he could muster said, "If you don't answer and we have to give you penicillin at some point, you could die."

"Penicillin," the Joker said the word without expression but to all three doctors it sounded like a curse.

Carver continued, "Well you're going to be with us for a while Mr.—Joker. You never know."

"No allergies, then." Arkham said, jotting this down. The next question on the form was any family history of mental illness, but if they started down that road they would be there for hours. He skipped that question.

"Do you have thoughts of suicide?"

At this the Joker threw his head back and gave a loud bark of laughter—he shook his head, the matted hair flying around his face. "Oh—oh doctor—Doctor _Arkham_, was it?" his lips curled back in a cruel smile and he began rocking in the chair. "I think I'm a little too tired for those kinds of questions right now—you see—they're very _taxing_ on the mind." His gaze flew over to Harley and he saw that she was gazing at him, almost in awe until she met his eyes again and she slipped into neutral.

"Dr. _Quinzel_ was it?" he didn't wait for her to answer, instead he screwed his lips up in disgust. "Nice shoes, beautiful. Bet they make you feel powerful, don't they? Oh, don't play coy with me, now. I always love a women who uses her legs to get ahead in life—spread them open for Dr. Carver lately?"

Harley's heart was beating fast in her chest the entire time he spoke to her, his eyes boring into her and once again she was overwhelmed with the desire to touch him. But her voice came out clear and patronizing, "Mr. Joker, please don't think bating your doctors will do you any good."

He was gazing at her from across the room, then squinted at her name tag, licking his vicious compulsively, "Harley—is it? Well _Harley _I can't imagine why a pretty little thing like you is working in a big bad nuthouse like this." He cocked his head to the side, licking at his scars. There was no humor, only a hidden threat in his voice. "Care to enlighten me?"

Arkham cleared his throat, getting the Joker's attention. "Alright, we'll save the psychological evaluation for later. Mr. Joker," he couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes in exasperation at having to say such a thing. "We three will be your primary doctors. As head of the facility I will be in directly in charge of your care while Dr. Carver and Dr Quinzel will provide treatment."

The Joker snorted derisively, "Which one of them is going to talk to me about my feelings."

"Dr. Carver will provide talk therapy—Dr. Quinzel's specialty is psychopharmacology."

His black eyes swung over to Harley again, he gave her a significant look and started rocking back and forth in his chair again. "Excellent. The pretty one's a drug dealer. I see there's a new Scarecrow in the house."

All three doctors recoiled in shock at this statement—it had been _incredibly_ embarrassing when Dr. Crane had turned out to have Dissociative Identity Disorder and had to be locked away in his own institution. It was also a bit of surprise that he knew what the specialty was to begin with. That did not bode well.

Harley regained herself first, "I won't just be prescribing you drugs Mr. Joker—there are other aspects to my specialty."

The Joker grinned at the reaction he got, his scars twisting in his face, "Sure," was all he said.

"Let's take you to your cell," Arkham exhaled loudly and got to his feet. "Your effects will be kept and recorded—the orderlies will give you your issued scrubs. As is policy you will be kept in solitary confinement for the first twenty four hours."

A sour look raced across the Jokers face, his lips twisting up and his eyes rolling back. "Great, then what, do we get arts and crafts time if I'm good?"

Carver put his pen in his pocket and gave the Joker a pointed look, "Level one and two inmates are allowed an hour of social activity. You're level five security so you will have no contact with any of the other inmates. Only the three of us, other doctors and the orderlies."

His face fell, and morphed into that dark threatening stare as if he could have killed Carver from where he was sitting, chained down across the room. "No conjugal visit with Miss Harley than either, I take it."

"No conjugal visits at all," Harley said stiffly. She brushed imaginary dust off her skirt. He turned the threatening gaze on her. It was all he had to work with, she knew, being tied down and completely bereft of any tool of violence. But somehow that look said and did it all—shot terror through the heart so that he may as well have been wielding an ax over you.

But unlike Carver and Arkham, she couldn't look away.

"In two months time you can have a guest visit you but there will be a pane of glass between you," Arkham continued stonily. "In two months time you may put in that request and we will see what we can do—if the person is appropriate."

He started rocking in his chair again and staring at Harley. She stared back, unwilling and unable to stop. Carver noticed but kept it to himself; he would bring it up later, not in front of the psychopath.

"You know," the Joker stopped rocking the chair suddenly, and looked pensive. "I don't think that should be a problem—l get the feeling Miss Harley here will come visit me whenever I get _lonely_."

Harley frowned, despite her best effort to keep her face sterile and blank he'd somehow seen past it. She wondered if he could see Carver's disgust for him and Arkham's irritation as clearly as her intrigue. To be fair disgust and irritation were much more deserved qualities.

"Come here Harley," he indicated with his head that she should move towards him.

"Please refer to me as Dr. Quinzel," Harley said irritably. Without meaning to she walked in front of the chairs rather than behind them in order to follow the others out of the room.

He whistled at her, "Come on now, Harley. Don't leave me like this."

She gave him one last look before leaving, hoping she was able to throw contempt in but as she turned he lifted up one hand from behind his back, the broken cuff dangling from his wrist. He then stood up to his full height, neither leg attached to the chair anymore and after a theatrical shrug as if to say—how on earth did that happen!-- he lunged at her.

Harley was not one to scream but she let out half of a shriek when the very real Joker grabbed her and pulled her to his chest before she had a chance to blink. He took the broken hand cuff and pulled it tight around her throat, cutting off her oxygen. She started to gasp and scrabble at his hands but he only pulled tighter.

The room was suddenly full of SWAT officers, shouting at him and aiming their guns directly at his head. He pulled on the chain a little bit harder and Harley opted for trying to grab his face but her fingers only came away in paint—and when he kissed her thumb she pulled her hands back as if shocked.

Harley couldn't hear what was being said, she was just concentrating on the tightening and loosening of the handcuff drawn across her neck. She smelled something strange—slightly masculine but also dirty and—and something else she couldn't quite put a name to—turning her face to the side she realized it was him—the Joker—he had a smell. She could only see the line of paint drawn across his jaw where the clown face ended and the thin but overwhelmingly strong body began.

She felt his waist coat against her cheek—rough and velvety and deliciously thick—real—it was just a piece of clothing but it was part of him at the same time. He pulled the chain tighter and she could feel him saying something, the rumbling in his throat against the top of her head rather than hear it. If she held still enough, Harley bet she could hear his heart beat. The thought fascinated her.

"Hmm, you're not struggling very much," he suddenly mumbled in her ear, hot stale breath passing over the side of her face. Harley shut her eyes and turned to look at him. He let her go and she staggered across the room to Carver and Arkham, panting and holding her throat. Meanwhile the SWAT team practically piled on top of the Joker, which he seemed to find incredibly funny.

"I was only playing with her!" he insisted, cackling loudly as they beat him onto the floor and wrapped him in a straight jacket. "Tell them Dr. Quinzel, you didn't mind, did you!"

Jeremiah groaned. "We're going to need much better security."

X

Note: Okie Dokie. That is much more what I was going for in a first chapter. Next up we'll be bringing Dr. Crane into the mix, and his little split personality—the scarecrow.


	2. Chapter 2

A Handful of Dust

2.

Dr Jonathan Crane had gotten quite good at reading whilst his arms were tied around his waist in a straight jacket. After getting past the initial claustrophobia of living with one's upper torso more or less immobile things became easier—for example balance. At the beginning it was nearly impossible to stand up straight without falling over. Not that there were many opportunities for standing up when the only time he left his cell was for a shower in the morning.

He was classified a level four patient, which meant he was required to wear a straight jacket at all times and wasn't allowed interaction with other inmates. Considering he himself had partially revised the classifications two years earlier, this was perhaps the purest definition of irony.

It also meant he had to have at least five sessions with a psychiatrist every week—he'd been graced with Dr. Allan Green—a fair haired middle aged man who spent his holidays vaccinating children in Africa. Green seemed to think Crane really did have it in him to rehabilitate despite his Multiple Personality Disorder. The entire situation depressed Crane to no end. He had disliked Green whilst working with him, and now having five hour long visits with him a week, Crane positively loathed him.

He lowered his head to turn the page with his teeth when there was suddenly a loud commotion out in the hall—and he realized it was a woman shouting. "I know I'm not his doctor!—Don't be absurd!—You listen to me you—"

The door swung open and Harley stomped in, her black pumps clattering across the flag stone floor. She twirled around to face the orderly out in the hall. He had his hands held up in surrender. "If you ever want to loose your job I suggest getting in my way again—" she huffed, then slammed the door and whirled around to face him.

The three dead bolds slammed ominously into place when the door shut—an audible reminder of his captivity.

A delicate curl of blonde hair flew into Harley's face and she blew at it restlessly. "Idiotic orderlies," she muttered, sliding out of her white lab coat and throwing it on his bed before plopping herself down as well.

"Hello, Harley," he said, amusement flickering across his cold face momentarily at her distress. "What can I do for you?"

She crossed her legs and brushed off her skirt primly. Jonathan liked Harley—she was a brilliant psychiatrist with absolutely no qualms about hurting the people who got in her way. She was perhaps one of the only other doctors—because Crane still considered himself a doctor at Arkham, whether he was also a patient or not—whom he could speak to without feeling as if he were interacting with an inept child.

It didn't hurt that when she'd asked him to write up a research project with her regarding his fear toxin and the legality of certain aspects of psychopharmacology she had made it clear several times that she—well—wanted to get in his straight jacket, so to speak.

Harley made a twirling motion with her finger, suggesting he should turn his back to her—she began to undo his straight jacket, something he was sure she would get reprimanded for if any of the other doctors found out—but knowing her there was probably some piece of blackmail rolling around in that curly blonde head that would save her any hassle for breaking the rules. When she managed to undo the leather straps and part the canvas fabric he felt her absently run her hand down his spine—palm open first then the dull scratch of nails on his gray scrubs. He normally didn't relish being touched but once again, Harley was an exception.

Once the jacket was undone Crane shook himself out of it and tossed it to the floor; there were no mere words that could express his hatred for the thing. He turned back to Harley and saw that she'd pulled a thick file onto her lap and was shuffling through it rapidly, "I wanted your opinion on something, Jonathan," she said politely.

Whenever Harley was polite it meant she wanted something.

She pulled out a glossy coloured photo of a mug shot and Crane's shining blue eyes widened considerably. Holding the typical small black sign with white numbers scattered across it, was the Joker—clown make up in disarray and dirty hair wild— his head was tilted down somewhat so he was looking up at the camera—one eyebrow raised and his mouth twisted into a devilish sneer.

"The Joker," Crane flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders to get the feeling back. "What about him?"

"They brought him in last night," Harley explained airily, "Carver and I have been assigned to his case."

Although she kept her voice light Crane could hear a wealth of emotions under the surface—and her face gave her away completely. She tried to keep her face blank—her lips pulled taut so she wouldn't express how she actually felt about the case. And if she was hiding how she felt about the case that meant she was _excited_ about having it.

That in itself was not so bad, an opportunity to study the Joker although the risk for sustaining injury was high—but she wanted to hide it for some reason. Why?

That could only mean—and Crane found his lips trembling as a laugh tried to force its way to the surface—that she was either frightened or excited for non-professional reasons. Both were delightful in the form of the strong willed Dr. Harley Quinzel.

"You're afraid of him," he said, trying not to patronize her.

Her head shot up, blue eyes flaring. "I am not afraid of him—don't analyze me Jonathan."

He held his hands up in truce and Harley noticed his long thin fingers were trembling slightly. She took his hand and examined it closely—it was freezing cold and slightly blue and it shook even when she closed her palm around it. "Jonathan, did you by any chance notice your hands are blue and shaking?" She sent him a withering look.

He raised his free hand to his face and considered it studiously as if it were separate from himself, "I didn't, no." He looked irate suddenly. "Green took me off Aripriprazole and lowered the Clonazepam because the amount of Depikote the idiot had me on was probably going to give me a stroke." His lips twitched into a sneer.

Harley raised a suspecting eyebrow, "Did he change your medication or did you tell him to change your medication?"

Crane's chilly eyes glowed slightly as he looked over at her, his lips pursed in amusement. "Guess."

She snorted and shook her head. "Green is an idiot, but what—" her mouth parted slightly as her brow furrowed with worry, then she bit her lip delicately as if to stop herself from saying something she would regret. He prompted her with a nod of his head to keep going. Harley continued tentatively, "But if you're not on any anti-psychotics—won't that mean—" She trailed off.

He rubbed his hands together, as if for the first time realizing how cold they were and turned his gaze away from her. It looked bad, he knew it did. Convincing a psychiatrist to take his Dissociative Identity Disordered patient off the only medication that kept him in check—kept him in reality—or at least in control of his actions—keeping away the Scarecrow. "If I were you I wouldn't worry about it, Harley," his words came out harsher than he intended them to.

"Jonathan—"

Crane whirled around to face her; she was still clutching the photograph of the Joker loosely in one hand, gazing at him with concern. He decided to ignore her. "What did you want my opinion on, doctor."

Rolling her eyes, Harley gave up on him and decided if the Scarecrow started coming out again, then she would be more firm with him. As if there was any chance of being firm with _The Scarecrow._ "Well, the Joker, as I'm sure you've guessed by now." She cleared her throat and handed him the Joker's mug shot—the black eyes staring out were almost as unnerving as the real thing. Except the real thing had a smell and a feel—and if you pressed your cheek to his throat that maniacal laughter took on a whole new quality.

Harley looked over at Jonathan, hoping he hadn't caught her day dreaming. He was studying the picture, pursing his lips thoughtfully and rubbing an icy hand on his narrow thigh. "Well, although I have _yet_ to meet him—" He said calmly, placing an emphasis on _yet_ to insinuate that he would be at some point. "From what I've read and seen—my obvious diagnosis would be psychopathy—but that's not what you wanted to ask, is it, Harley."

His eyes—so intensely blue that they always caught Harley off guard—they latched onto her face. She thought it must have been because of those eyes that he had to move his face so little to express emotion. Right now he was studying her, analyzing her, memorizing her face and the way her lips twitched or eyes fluttered distractedly.

"Carver's talking to him now," she said slowly, "I listened for a while but it was all very—obvious. He tried to wind Carver up, manipulate him, pick him apart. He guessed about his brother being schizophrenic and that being the reason why he practices medicine. And the orderlies left him in that god awful purple suit because they were afraid to take the straight jacket off of him when he came in—so he knows everyone is afraid of them."

"Is Carver afraid of him?" Jonathan asked wryly, "Or is it obvious?"

"I don't think he is," Harley mused, picking through the Joker's file again. "He just lets the Joker talk and writes it all down. I think that must be infuriating for him—the Joker I mean." She paused again, watching Jonathan's face morph as he took in her words, secretly analyzing and coming up with conclusions and solutions of his own. "I think he's incredibly intelligent. The charm—that's obviously part of his psychosis but there is an intelligence there that is incredibly unnerving."

"You find him unnerving but not frightening?"

Harley shot him a dirty look and flicked the glossy mug shot in his hand, "Have you _seen_ him?"

"That's obvious, if you can't look past that there's no way you'll be able to write this study of yours."

She pouted slightly, "I'm just _dreading_ talking to him. It's just going to be sexist comment after sexist comment, I can tell." She swiveled sharply to face him directly, bringing one leg up on the bed at an angle. "That's how he'll start picking me apart."

"It's a very poor and obvious place to start if he's as intelligent as you think he is," Crane said snidely, then folded his long white hands in his lap, "You're an excellent psychiatrist Harley, you don't need my help in how to _talk_ to a patient no matter how much clown make up he has on." He glanced down at her legs—at the angle she had them the slit in her pencil skirt rode up higher than it was meant to, exposing the fact that she wore hold ups rather than panty hose—a few inches of bare skin showing where the sheer black stockings ended half way up her thigh. There was a trim of black lace pressing into glossy skin—

He cleared his throat, distracted by the image. Harley _would_ wear stockings to work; it wasn't much of a surprise. But now he couldn't get the distracting picture of her legs wrapped in lace out of his mind as he said, "Perhaps to dumb down sexist comments you should just wear trousers."

She sighed in frustration. "He'd probably say I'm hiding my sexuality to be accepted in a male dominated field."

"You would be," Crane said lightly, and then gestured to her legs, restraining himself from looking again. "But at least he wouldn't see you wear hold ups to work."

Harley looked down and with a gasp of embarrassment, adjusted her legs and skirt so she was appropriately covered up. A look at Crane's face and she saw he was pressing his lips together—probably amused at her discomfort. "What I really came to ask, Jonathan—Since I'm prescribing his medication—should I _dumb him down_ as you say—or do I leave him as he is?"

Crane glanced sideways at her, intrigued by the concept. "You mean keep him off all medication to keep him in the same state of mind he is now."

She nodded silently.

"You really do want to write the study of the decade, don't you." His voice was dry but impressed.

When she spoke it was to the glossy picture of the Joker. "He was handcuffed behind his back and his feet were chained to a chair when they brought him in, and as we were leaving he somehow managed to get out of both." She chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully, "He grabbed me and held the chain around my neck—so I suppose I have every right to be frightened of him since he could have killed me if he wanted to."

"But you still want to keep him off all medication," Jonathan asked tonelessly, watching the changes in her face. "Even if that means he kills Carver in a session."

She waved her hand loosely in the air, "Carver'll be fine."

Crane was quiet for a while, thinking how in most instances both he and Harley's approach to an interesting case study would be to pile on the drugs and take notes accordingly. But in this case, she wanted to do the opposite. And somehow he found himself agreeing with her—and also feeling impressed by her boldness.

"Arkham won't like it," he said with a flat smile. Winding up Jeremiah Arkham had been one of his favorite activities when he was still practicing at the hospital. Anything radical, time consuming or in anyway close to a potential lawsuit and Arkham would have a coronary.

"Fuck Arkham," she scoffed. "This is my case study—and yours if you want in."

Crane's brow rose in surprise, "How do you propose going about that? I'm a little—preoccupied if you haven't noticed." He gestured to the small cell indignantly.

"Oh please, Jonathan," she sighed dramatically. "Don't be so narrow minded. You know how horrible security is here." Her pager went off suddenly and she groaned when she got a look at it.

"Arkham?" Crane asked blandly.

"No, my intern." Harley pulled a face, "She's the most irritating, meek, useless little creature I've ever met in my life."

"You should feed her to the Joker."

They shared a secret smile—and Harley was only vaguely startled when something dark fluttered across his face. Something she associated with his alter ego the few times she'd seen it. The Scarecrow. It was dangerous and captivating and it aroused her curiosity. The calm, patronizing Dr. Crane and the reckless, uncontrollable Scarecrow both trapped in that brilliant mind. She reached up and touched his pale cheek softly, without really meaning to and he recoiled away from her as if burned.

"Sorry," Harley mumbled, quickly standing up and pulling her white doctor's coat on. "I'll keep you posted." She called over her shoulder.

"Harley."

She turned, chewing on her lip, more than slightly irritated with herself for touching him. He held up the straight jacket as if it were a piece of filth. "If you would be so kind."

Harley nodded and helped him slip back into the jacket, buckling the leather straps tight so escape was impossible—just as she was meant to. She bid him farewell and waited for the guard to open the door—three bolts sliding back and then her black heels clattering against the floor again as she left him sitting there, pondering Harley and her less than professional fascination with the Joker.

Crane nosed his book open to the page he'd been reading and sat back against his pillow. He had neglected to tell Harley as she left that her skirt had twisted again so that just an inch of bare thigh was noticeable over the top of her sheer stockings. This brought a smile to Crane's face as he leaned down to turn the page with his teeth.

You could hardly fault him for that.

X

Note: I forgot to do a disclaimer: don't sue anyone for anything, I give up all rights to anything written here. The name 'A Handful of Dust' is taken from one of my favorite books by Evelyn Waugh. I hope you all enjoy this little story so far—more sexiness and intrigue to come. Drop me a review if you think its any good!

Also, people-- there's been 60 of you reading this-- some of you must **leave me some reviews!!!**


	3. Chapter 3

A Handful of Dust

3.

Dr Constance Glass chewed her thumbnail relentless, trying to relieve some of the stress and fear that was wrapped around her heart—she was finding it slightly difficult to breathe. She switched to her index finger and hugged her clipboard to her chest, wishing she did not have to look at the Joker any longer than was necessary. Looking at him at all seemed unnecessary. Today was the first time she'd seen him in person, when Dr. Quinzel had explained the new _situation_. As an intern she reported to Dr. Quinzel directly which meant if she were really unlucky she would be seeing a lot of _him_.

Constance could feel Dr. Quinzel glaring at her for chewing her nails and not bothering to hide her fear but was relieved when her superior didn't say anything.

Both women stood behind a thick pane of glass watching the Joker and Dr. Carver talk over a thick steel table—even though Constance knew the Joker couldn't see her through the glass she was still afraid of those eyes—newly ringed in black grease paint and very frightening.

"Why do they let him wear make up?" she asked Dr. Quinzel quietly.

"His make up is part of what makes him the Joker," Harley responded, not bothering to keep the irritation out of her voice, "The Joker is who we're trying to understand after all."

"Oh," Constance sighed and decided to remain quiet unless Dr. Quinzel prompted her to speak.

She wasn't afraid of Harley necessarily, more in wonder—but in her eagerness to please she never seemed to do anything right, and Harley only acted as if she were an irritant impeding her in her work. Constance found this incredibly depressing—she did look up to Harley, because she was one of the most respected doctors in the city of Gotham. But she was also incredibly frightening when she was in a bad mood.

Like today.

Constance wasn't entirely sure what had set her off—something about the Joker's medication and Dr. Arkham almost 'having a stroke' as Dr. Carver put it. That in addition to the fact that she'd heard Harley and Dr. Arkham shouting at each other inside Harley's office and Constance was sure she had heard her own name mentioned a few times. That was a several days ago and since then Harley had practically joined Constance to her hip.

Mostly Dr. Quinzel ignored her except for when she needed something and seen as Constance could usually discern what Dr. Quinzel would need before she did—well—then Harley would send her a quizzical look and say "Thanks a lot Radar" which made no sense to Constance what so ever.

Inside the Joker's cell Carver was scribbling something on his notepad whilst being stared down—Constance was sure he must have noticed how the Joker was looking at him—like a cat watching a mouse. Except when the mouse looked up and noticed this death glare his voice was dry and less than enthusiastic, "Would you like to tell me about your scars today."

The Joker moved his torso around in a wide circle. He was unable to gesture in the straight jacket and they'd finally gotten him out of the purple suit and into some scrubs—all he had to work with was his face and what little he could do with his shoulders to express himself. "You ask me about the scars every—single—day—_doctor_. Don't you get bored? Or is the rest of your day _so_ boring here that I'm the only thing keeping you _interested._" He paused, chewing on the inside of his mouth, and then swung his gaze to the one way mirror where Harley and Constance stood.

Constance was sure he could see her—he was staring right at her, she was sure.

"He can't see you," Harley's voice was stern—and although she wasn't looking at Constance she could somehow feel the fear radiating off the younger woman.

Constance was not what you would call 'pretty' in a traditional sense. She was short and awkwardly thin—all bony elbows and a flat chest. Her face was almost impossible to see under a huge mop of frizzy brown hair— the colour of faded tea rather than a strong brunette. What the frizzy hair didn't cover, thick round spectacles did. Harley often wondered if she was dressed by an old woman considering the huge glasses, lack of make up and the fact that her daily uniform consisted of trousers made of cheap material that buttoned at the waist and made her arse look like a half deflated balloon—along with some kind of hideous sweater or shirt buttoned up to the throat and the wrists and tucked in awkwardly to the horrible pants.

Today they almost matched, which Constance saw as a sign that maybe she was growing on Dr. Quinzel but Harley simply looked confused when Constance pointed it out. Today Harley wore a pair of narrow black trousers, tailored to fit her shape which were also buttoned at the waist—except Harley wore them with a towering pair of black heels and a pale pink camisole tucked into a thick belt. Harley also knew her arse looked like a peach in these trousers.

Carver was clearly trying not to give up by simply spending his sessions being irritated with the Joker so he pushed on. "I find your stories interesting and very telling about your personality Mr. Joker. And yes—they can be entertaining. You like entertaining don't you. Putting on a show. Be it a morbid show or a humorous one."

The Joker threw his head back and practically growled in frustration. He was getting really tired of being patronized and analyzed. "Look, listen, ah—" he bent his chin down low—staring at Carver head on. "I want to hear about your crazy brother—let's hear it—come on."

"This is not quid-pro-quo Mr. Joker," Carver took a deep breath, "But you are right, my brother is mentally unstable and that is one of the reasons why I chose to specialize in psychiatry. Would you mind telling me how you discerned that within only a few sessions with me?"

"What." The Joker's voice was flat, not amused, and certainly not flattered.

"How did you know—how do you pick up on things like that in people so quickly?"

The Joker pursed his red lips, "How did you and the blonde decide I was a psychopath before even meeting me? Hmm?" he cocked his head to the side and looked out the glass again. Constance shrank behind Harley who rolled her eyes. "Just because I've got a—uh—image to uphold."

Carver's voice was more like a long sigh, "You don't feel guilt or fear or compassion or empathy—you have no qualms about taking the lives of others—"

"Morals!" The Joker sang, "You're talking about morals, not psychology."

"No." Carver stared at the Joker unwavering, "No, your behavior over the last few months fits every criteria for a psychopath. That's why we diagnosed you before we met you. It's _classic—"_ He trailed off as an orderly came into the room with a silver tray holding two paper cups on it's surface. Constance felt Harley stiffen in front of her before she practically sprinted towards the entrance of the Joker's cell. Constance followed uncertainly, unsure what her mentor was doing.

"Let me _in DAMN IT!_" Harley snarled at the orderly who was trying to slide his card through the divot in the wall and failing to get the magnetic strip in the right direction. He quickly got out of her way as she bolted into the room, her towering heels almost sliding along the cement floor as she reached Carver's side. The orderly with the tray took one look at her infuriated face and slowly put the tray down and got out of her way.

"Erm—here's his meds—" he said awkwardly, shuffling around Harley nervously. She only sent him a dirty glare and looked down at Carver. They had a silent conversation which ended in him standing, handing the clipboard to Harley and leaving with a casual and almost friendly, "See you tomorrow Mr. Joker."

The heavy door slammed shut behind Carver and the three steel bolts slid into place.

Harley shook her hair out of her eyes, trying to regain her composure as she stepped further into the room, taking Carver's seat at the table across from the Joker. She met his gaze for the first time that day and instantly felt herself blush. He was looking at her as if he'd never seen anything like her before in his life—he wasn't glaring for the first time, simply frowning with one eyebrow arched high above the other, his mouth parted slightly, as if about to speak but unable to come up with the right words. Harley realized that in her show of rage she'd rendered the Joker speechless.

The bolts slid back and the nervous orderly pushed his head in, "Dr. Arkham wants me to remind you to make sure he gets his medication." He looked over his shoulder and Harley knew Arkham must have been watching. Great. The door slammed and the bolts clanged in place again.

She blew an aggravated blonde curl out of her face and crossed her legs—trying not to feel his gaze on her.

"Hello Mr. Joker how are you today?"

"Oh—peachy," he said slowly, his voice high and nasal as usual. "Where'd Sport-O go? Death in the family?"

Harley ignored him, "So, we're putting you on five types of medication today. Would you like to know what they are?" She tried to keep her voice light and friendly even though she felt herself shaking from the inside out—his gaze was so undeniably penetrating—even when she wasn't looking at him she could feel him staring. She started scribbling words on her note pad when he still didn't respond.

"Someone seems in a bit of a—_tizzy_ today Dr. _Quinzel_."

"I'd like you to look at this drawing and tell me what you think about it," she said pleasantly, pushing the piece of paper she'd been scribbling on across the table to him. He looked annoyed and bored and for a moment stared at her with his lips pulled sideways in disgust—then he looked to the side at the one way mirror, then finally down at the paper with a resigned sigh. Upon seeing the paper surprise only barely registered in his black eyes.

"I see a tree," he said blandly, looking directly at Harley again and trying to hold back the sinister smile that was so blatantly trying to twist his lips. "A big, gorgeous tree."

Harley nodded and pulled the piece of paper back. Like _hell_ she was going to let Arkham and his phobia of a non-drugged Joker get in the way of her study. Carver agreed with her and Crane agreed with her—there was virtually no point in having him at Arkham if they were only going to give him enough drugs to turn him into a vegetable—or something even worse—normal.

The paper said: _When I give you the pills put them under your tongue—when I step in front of you spit them in my pocket._

She knew it was dangerous. She knew scheming even the littlest bit with the Joker was almost warranting a death sentence—never mind that it was against the director of the asylum's wishes and that she was, in a sense, _fraternizing_ with the enemy. Encouraging him to break the rules so she could break them herself so she could write the research paper of the decade. Keeping him sober was absolutely necessary.

The Joker couldn't keep from grinning lecherously at her as she stood, took the small paper cup of little pills and moved towards him. "Say ahh—" she sing songed sarcastically, dumping them down his throat.

He made a big show of swallowing and looking up at her. "All gone," he growled. She offered him the little paper cup of water and he leaned forward expectantly, his dark eyes glowering up at her. "May I _please_ have some water."

His eyes were frightening again, feral and dangerous like he was in the mood for killing something. No doubt from being with Carver for an hour having the same questions asked over and over again. Harley went to pour the water down his throat, wondering if he'd swallowed the pills just to spite her—probably—but then suddenly he leaned forward and knocked the cup of water with his nose—sending it flying across the room.

Before Harley had a chance to respond he was pressing his cheek to her wrist, nuzzling her pulse with his nose for a moment before suddenly licking the blue veins that traveled under the pale skin of her wrist. He dragged his open mouth up to her palm, mocking kissing her, nibbling her skin lightly and dragging his tongue upwards with one final press of his lips to her fingers— and he pulled away, smirking lazily at the reaction he got.

Harley was far too shocked to do anything other than look down at her hand—five small pills sat neatly in her quivering palm. The bolts in the door slammed open and two orderlies flew in, tasers glittering in their hands. Harley waved them off, trying to muster the ability to look disgusted at having the Joker's mouth all over her hand.

She wasn't disgusted.

"It's fine he's just bored—" she told them, with a flippant hand gesture. Harley looked back at the Joker, his eyes still dark and dangerous.

"You taste nice." He told her with a quick wink.

She put the pills in her pocket and staggered backwards towards the exit. There was no way she would be able to focus on a conversation with him now. "I'll speak with you soon," she told him in the blandest voice she was capable of, "Take care."

He just chuckled, low and rumbling in his chest. She thought about what that laugh had felt like against her cheek and instantly knew she was going to have to get control of herself if she ever wanted to finish this case study..

X

"Dr. Glass."

Constance's head shot up from her computer—she'd been focused on researching the Joker—going through old files and documents only the Asylum had access to and it had completely absorbed her attention for the better part of an hour. She shared an office with three other interns and she knew at some point they'd asked her to go for lunch but Constance had mumbled no thank you over her shoulder, too distracted by her research.

Dr. Quinzel stood looking down her nose at her now—her curly blonde hair was looking especially curly against her shoulders as if she'd spent a bit more time on it that morning, and she wore a dark green dress that fell just above her knees, belted at the waist—a gold chain with a pendant was her only jewelry.

"Hey—hello Dr. Quinzel—I was just researching—"

Harley interrupted her, "Would you like to have lunch with me, Constance?"

Constance could only manage to nod her acquiescence and scramble out from behind her desk. She followed Harley's swaying white lab coat down the hall towards the staff kitchenette where the Doctors usually spent their time staring at the clock with a cup of coffee in hand rather than actually eating. Today was a case in point. Harley poured black coffee from the always nearly empty pot on the counter and sat down. She gave no indication that she would actually be eating lunch on their lunch break.

Constance slid into the seat across from Harley, feeling somehow silly that she had a brown bag lunch in the small refrigerator in the corner. She waited for Harley to speak first but before the older doctor got a chance Dr. Arkham stepped in the room to refill his coffee cup. He shot Constance a wary look before focusing on Harley.

"Ah, Harley," he poured his coffee then proceeded to look at her like he was holding back a secret. "I see you've started the Joker on Diazepam, Perphenazine, Trifluroperazine, Paroxetine and Ambian?" He nodded smugly when she gave him a bright, albeit fake smile. "That Perphenazine should do wonders for him—make him a bit easier for Dr. Carver to work with too." And with that he turned and walked away.

Harley turned back to her coffee, grumbling, "Ass hole."

Constance chewed on her thumbnail again and chanced to speak, hoping not to get yelled at. "Er—Dr. Quinzel," she lowered her voice, "I thought we were keeping him sober."

Harley raised an intrigued eyebrow in her intern's direction but didn't say anything.

"I mean—I saw you—I mean, maybe I didn't see you—but I thought I saw you—"

Closing her eyes and breathing heavily through her teeth, Harley said, "Dr. Glass. One thing you should learn while you're here isn't simply how a hospital functions—but how the politics within a hospital work—do you understand?"

Constance nodded quietly.

"For example," Harley took her glasses off and trapped Constance's gaze with her bright blue eyes, her mouth set in a firm line. "What you just heard—and what I _think_ you saw—You need to decide are you with _us_ or are you with _them."_

"I'm with you Dr. Quinzel," Constance said quickly. "One-hundred per cent," she added, in what she hoped was a confident tone.

Harley sat back and slid her glasses up her nose, satisfied with her answer, "Good."

"Erm—" Constance knew she was crossing a line, but she kept her voice low and carried on anyway. "Is um, Dr. Crane with—erm—_us_ too?"

"Oh—wow, Radar," Harley crossed her arms and smiled widely at her intern, "You're smarter than I gave you credit for—" Her gaze darkened suddenly. "Wait, how did you know that—is it obvious?"

"Oh no—no, not at all," Constance scrambled to correct herself and hopefully make Harley smile again, "I just know you wrote that study with him—I know you were friends before—and—er—well the one time I met him I—" she trailed off looking embarrassed now. "You have a way that you look at him and when you come back up here sometimes I can tell when you've been to see him because you have that—that look to you."

It worked, Harley's lips twitched up in a crooked smile, her blue eyes twinkling, "I have a look to me after I've been to see him?"

"Yeah, you know," Constance smiled then—was this girl talk? Was she getting girl talk out of the cold Dr. Quinzel? "Kind of like— like serious," she frowned, pulling her mouth into a small pout. "But happy—or amused," she made her eyes lighten a bit, keeping her mouth in a pout. "And you kind of have this like—soapy leathery smell that I mean—I know all the patients use the same soap and have the same er—jackets—but its like you've been close to one—"

Harley laughed out loud, "Constance do you think I'm having an affair with Dr. Crane?"

Constance's mouth fell open—"I didn't say that—I didn't mean."

Leaning forward Harley whispered secretively, "Do you think he's handsome, Constance?"

"Well—I suppose."

Harley chuckled into her coffee, "Okay—I want you to tell me what you know about the Joker." Her voice wasn't quite as cold as it usually was but it was stern and business like nonetheless.

"Well—" Constance cleared her throat, "From your notes and Dr. Carver's notes—"

"How did you get Dr. Carver's notes?" Harley frowned.

"I asked him if I could type them up for him," she said softly—unsure if she'd made a mistake.

"Oh—" Harley took her glasses off again, seeming genuinely surprised by her intern's diligence.

"From your notes and Dr. Carver's notes," Constance continued, "I know you've diagnosed him as a Psychopathic Personality—with Narcissistic Personality tendencies and—erm—that he has been completely aware of his actions and known the potentiality of the consequences; in a standard sense he is sane, with abnormally high intelligence and an incredibly striking ability to read people within moments of meeting them. Dr. Carver seems to think those two qualities are what you should be focusing on—the intelligence and the interaction with others—but I know you're more concerned with his sense of rationality—

"He thinks his motives are completely rational, although he is willing to admit he is a psychopath—he only sees that as being a um—side product. Separate from his goals—which he also insists he doesn't have."

"He said that to Dr. Carver?" Harley asked, leaning forward on her elbows. "That he knows he's a psychopath?"

"That's him rationalizing his disease, obviously," Constance said flippantly, for the first time feeling comfortable around Harley.

"Dr. Glass," Harley bit her lip thoughtfully, "When you finish typing up Dr. Carver's and my notes will you please add them to his file and make three photocopies then leave them on my desk."

Constance nodded eagerly and after a look from Harley that suggested she should get started immediately she jumped out of her seat and scurried out of the kitchenette. Harley watched her go, still biting her lip as the wheels turned. She needed to get him to talk. Not about his past. Not about his scars. Not about her legs either. She wanted to avoid philosophy if possible and simply get him to explain himself in the simplest manner possible. If he understood himself, made himself clear to her—the Joker that is, not whoever else was in that head—then she had somewhere to start in her research.

She wanted to hear about his murders—the methods and the mentality—she wanted to hear the details and see what happened in his eyes—memories of blood and bone—if he talked long enough maybe the manipulation and lies would fade to gray and some of the truth would shine through—maybe, if she was lucky. Whatever happened she would give him the upper hand—or let him think he had it anyway—then try to create a balance. Winning patients over by making them think you're 'on their side' was futile in this instance.

Sure with your average mob thug suffering from paranoid delusions it worked—in those instances quid pro quo would usually do the job. But the Joker—well— from the irritated and defeated look Carver was wearing lately it would seem the Joker was smarter than they thought. No, quid pro quo was not going to work this time.

Carver's door was halfway open when she poked Harley head in. His office was decorated with diplomas and pictures of his family. He had a pretty young wife who was pregnant with their second child. At 33 Carver could definitely be proud of his work—presently he sat leaning back in his big leather chair—it stuck out strangely against the gothic stone architecture of his office. Carver was staring at the wall across from his desk, twirling a pen around in his hand.

"James—" Harley knocked twice before entering.

"Oh—Harley—" he sighed, "What can I do for you?"

Harley frowned in mock concern. "You look exhausted James," she said, leaning against his desk and giving him a compassionate and concerned smile. He looked fine, actually. But suggesting a person feels a certain way, _generally_ results in them agreeing. Especially if sympathy is an end result for them.

"Do I? It's been a long day and I haven't even been to see the Joker yet," he yawned, "These night shifts are starting to be the death of me."

That was why Harley was the better psychiatrist.

"You should just go home," Harley looked out the window at the darkening sky, "I can take care of the Joker for you—don't worry."

Carver raised an eyebrow—mildly suspicious. Harley never did nice things. She only did nice things if she wanted something from you. But he couldn't think what she could possibly want other than maybe using the fact that he left early against him at some point in the future. But that was hardly a hassle. He unclipped his pager from his belt and switched it off. "If you're sure?"

"Yeah, go on, I can keep Constance late if I need anything."

He shrugged and said thank you, then started packing up his brief case to leave. Constance was waiting in Harley's office with three huge files clutched in her arms, frizzy hair covering more of her face than usual with her glasses askew. Her face—or her mouth anyway, you couldn't really see any other area of expression— was pulled into a very serious line.

"Here's the files on the Joker, Dr. Quinzel," she said, trying not to sound overly keen as she began to hand them to Harley—then realizing it was taking both arms to hold the lot, set them down on the desk instead.

Harley raised her eyebrows, impressed. "Is that—"

"Both yours, Dr. Carver and Dr. Arkham's notes—the police reports, the physician's reports, detective reports, lists of all possible criminal connections and associations from the police database, and most of the relevant press clippings." Constance cleared her throat. "I did some extra research."

"Thanks, _Radar,"_ Harley said again, grinning widely this time. "I'm impressed. You can go home now unless you'd like to come with me to see the Joker?"

Constance's beaming face paled considerably at the thought of meeting the Joker in person so Harley patted her shoulder, "Maybe tomorrow then. You can go home, Dr. Glass."

"Oh—okay. Thank you Dr. Quinzel, I hope that's helpful." She still didn't understand why Harley called her Radar but she was fairly certain it was affectionate.

With Constance and Carver gone Harley had the asylum to herself again. It felt incredibly good to be alone amongst the tortured screams and dark, dirty halls—it felt powerful. She left two of Constance's thick, well organized files on the Joker on her desk and took the third with her as she clipped into the elevator. Iron gates rattled shut and she brushed off her green dress, adjusting the belt slightly and fluffing her curly hair as she rode up to the seventh floor.

Her black heels—round toes that gave her a decent extra four inches of height—snapped against the cold, dirty floors as she walked towards the Joker's cell. Level Five security on the very top floor meant five orderlies patrolled the halls at night rather than the usual day time ten. This made very little sense to Harley seen as _nighttime_ was probably the most likely time an inmate would attempt to escape.

She came to his cell and whipped out her swipe card—a green light flashed and she punched in the six digit code— the three steel bars snapped back before she stepped inside the room, hoping he wouldn't be standing right behind the door waiting to scare her.

He wasn't though—The Joker was lying on his cot staring up at the padded ceiling and humming to himself as he counted the triangles of think fabric hanging over him. When the bolts in the door slid back and heels cracked against the floor loudly—_clip clop clip clop—_he didn't have to guess who had come to visit him. He lifted his head, seeing Harley standing there with her lips pursed and an exceptionally large folder clutched in her arms. She set it down on the table and offered him a grim smile.

"Hellooo beautiful," he cooed lavishishly.

X

Note: please review!


	4. Chapter 4

A Handful of Dust

4.

"Hell_ooo_, beautiful."

The Joker sat up, having to swing his torso to get enough momentum to propel himself upwards. Not having use of his arms meant having to learn to do a lot of things strangely—but it didn't take very long. He was a fast learner.

"Hello, how are you feeling?" she asked, pulling off her glasses and setting them next to the giant folder.

"I can't feel my arms," he told her truthfully, before struggling to his feet and slinking over to the steel table. She gestured for him to sit down but he remained standing. Harley got the impression that if he were to have the use of his arms he'd have them crossed to match the way he had cocked his head to the side, inspecting her face. She slid her glasses back on, feeling the need for a barrier of some kind.

He gestured to the file on the table, "Might I inquire what that little present is?"

"It's your file, she told him plainly, lifting herself up slightly so she was partially sitting on the table with her arms still crossed. "Have a look if you like."

He glared at her, not enjoying being baited. "I'm a little _tied up_ at the moment, Miss. If you haven't noticed, I mean."

Harley shrugged out of her doctor's coat and tossed it on top of the empty chair. He took in her dress—pretty and classy—not too much leg but the belt at her waist showed off her slim figure. The heels she had on were absurdly tall. It all screamed power, understated femininity and misplaced _dignity. _But he would wait to tell her what she wanted to be told later.

"Do you want me to let you out?" she asked calmly, stepping closer to him, looking openly into his face, trying read all the little expressions there. Right now he was gazing at her warily and every now and then glancing down at her shoes. He didn't trust her. Was it because he didn't understand her? Or did he simply not have time for her.

He chewed on his lip for a bit and arched one eyebrow slowly. "Be my guest," he said at last, then threw his head back and laughed for a while, the green hair flying everywhere. Harley smiled.

"Okay—but are you going to hurt me?"

"I thought you were supposed to be smart, Miss Harley," he scoffed. Then realized she was toying with him—and the idea of the dear doctor being willing to play a little game with him set of fireworks in the back of his brain—_finally_ something to do!

He sat down on the heavy chair and looked up at her curiously, licking the serrated scar tissue slowly.

"What I _meant_ was if I let you out—and you _do_ hurt me—why would you do that?" she raised her eyebrows and cocked her head to the side, big blue eyes as calm as the ocean before a storm.

The Joker licked his lips again, considering his response. "Well, sweetheart, if I were to hurt you—say—take your shoe and hit you with it?" he made the shrugging gesture with his shoulders again as if to sign spreading his hands out in a dramatic motion, laying out his cards on the table for her. He decided he would lay it out. Just this once. But only for her. "I would do it—because I'm bored."

She nodded, as if this were fair play.

"Aren't you going to write this down?" he asked her dryly. Everyone wrote down everything in this nuthouse.

"I'll remember it," she said callously. "Do you dislike me?"

He sputtered with laughter, "I hardly know you, gorgeous—" He leaned forward frowning at her yet smiling, trying to work out what her eyes were saying.

"Okay," she offered him a tiny smile and pursed her lips. He noticed whenever she moved her head the slightest bit her blonde curls would fly all over the place. "So, you don't dislike me, but if I let you out of the straight jacket you'd hit me with my own shoe because you're bored."

He made a face, "Is that your version of remembering what I say?" without giving her time to respond he continued, "What you really want to know is _why_ I'd hurt you—right? And you want answers like, boredom, getting off on other peoples' pain," he moved his head to side to side with each comment, "having an _agenda_ against someone—well, you, in this case, and wanting to cause you pain—am I getting close?"

"Perfect," she said, "Are any of those true?"

He rolled his eyes, "I don't do things for reasons—I wouldn't hurt you because I was bored or I needed to get off on it—" the phrase seemed to cause him mild nausea because he shook his head as if to clear it. "You know I just _do_ things. I don't plan on it, they just happen."

Harley pressed her lips together and smiled at him— not a real smile though, just a – this is my job and I have to do it smile. "You know, part of the theory of having you in here is that we're supposed to undo those kinds of thoughts—help you control your impulses and make plans before you do things. Learn to control your psychosis."

He was about to interrupt but she cut him off "Personally, I don't think it's possible and I don't think you want to do it either."

Now he was glaring at her again, the black eyes narrowing to slits. "You like to tell people how they feel, Harley, don't you."

Her name sounded like poison on his lips. "A bit, I suppose. Shall we pretend you can make plans though?" She had posed the question simply— if he said _no_ then he was proving to her he was not in control of himself—so he would have to say yes—he would have to talk. He was staring at her expectantly and then sighed heavily and dramatically.

Harley slid a tiny bit closer on the table towards him. "If I were to let you out of the jacket—other than my shoes what else would you do to me?"

This seemed to amuse him greatly because he laughed again—loudly and then dissolving into giggles, "You want me to tell you what I'd do to you if I had the use of my arms? Gorgeous, I'm finding you to be _so_ much fun."

"Good," she smiled softly.

His eyes quickly reverted back to darkness. It was almost visible in his face, his mind tumbling with threats just waiting to spill out of his mouth—"Well, right now, I would probably _not_ use your shoes since you've more or less ruined that for me. I would, however, get that pen out of your coat pocket—the one you've just thrown on the chair over there—probably slam you onto this table—you know, just backwards—not too much effort necessary—you're quite small. Then um—stick it in your neck—or your eye—no your eye, women are funny about things like that."

He noticed she had stopped smiling and was simply watching him cautiously. He didn't get the impression that she was afraid—simply curious. He stopped and looked thoughtful— when she spoke, her voice clear and calm. "What about sex."

This made him laugh uncontrollably again— he looked up at her through tearful eyes, "Sex?" Hmm. "Well—I don't know, _Harley_. I don't know you well enough yet—you don't use your sexuality for attention but you are a clearly highly sexually charged person." This made her startle and sit up a bit straighter. Oh, he'd hit a nerve. "Oh—what—didn't you realize that? You see _now_ the impulse that I supposedly can't control—don't want to control—you psychologists can work that out for yourselves but _now _I want to know what's under that skirt—it would be especially easy if I had a pen in your eye and you on your back."

"So you wouldn't be able to control your impulse to rape me."

He snorted in disdain and then eyed her up for a little while—challenging her again to look away. A small smile threatening to turn into an uncontrolled laugh caught on his lips. He grinned, Cheshire like and dangerous—when he spoke it was like silk. "I think you know it wouldn't be rape, my dear."

Harley's brain seemed to make a woooosshhh sound as the image assaulted her—lying on the table with her skirt up around her waist—without a pen in her eye preferably. "Don't be crude—" she choked out but he had started laughing so hard he couldn't control it again.

Attempting to regain control of the meeting, Harley pushed her glasses up her nose and opened the file she had set in front of him—ignoring the horrific laughter that he seemed completely unable to control. She crossed her arms and watched him for a long time—this set him off on another peal of giggles until at last he trailed off and as if a light switched, darkened his gaze, lowered his head and waited for her to say something.

Harley's heart was pounding almost painfully in her chest as she stepped forward, trying to be in control, trying to exude the power between their dynamic. She grasped the front of his straight jacket roughly and jerked him to his feet—he stumbled, surprised by the violent movement—she was glaring at him fiercely from behind those small black glasses even though he now towered over her—in her personal space which would normally make a girl like her uncomfortable but she just kept glaring.

Then her blue eyes melted slightly, the ferocity leaving them slowly and she grabbed his arm to indicate he should turn around. He remained quiet—not wishing to bait her while she undid the buckles and loops of the straight jacket before letting it fall to the ground around next to his feet.

Harley backed up quickly into her chair, almost tumbling over when the backs of her knees collided with steel suddenly.

"Thanks," was all he said, sitting down as well and folding his hands together pleasantly on the table surface. "I'd promise not to hurt you but I doubt it would make much difference to you."

She started to smile but then lowered her head so he wouldn't see that he made her laugh—her blonde hair covered her face, shielding what the Joker was sure at least a tiny giggle. Harley took a deep breath, "No, probably not—" she hesitated for a moment, then gestured towards his file. "If you'd like to read through it—it's relatively comprehensive of all your activities in the past three months."

The Joker snorted derisively, and flipped the folder open. Paper clipped to the inside was the check in sheet claiming he had no name or birthday but a height and weight and an initial diagnosis. He noticed it also included a list of questions with check boxes indicating yes or no. The only one filled in was thoughts of suicide which was checked no. "Do you want me to fill this in, Harl?"

"No, it's okay," she told him. She was watching him—he could tell she was trying to turn the tables—be the one in control—maybe he should let her, that would certainly be against the plan.

The first section, he noticed, were typed up notes from Arkham and Carver. Arkham's were short and bland while Carver's were long winded and thoughtful—almost prose. The Joker could only stomach so much or Carver's notes when it got to guessing about his past and different theories regarding intelligence. Carver thought he was a genius—irritating—but a genius. "Well that's awfully nice," The Joker said dryly, "Jamie thinks I'm a genius."

Harley rested her chin on her palm, "Do you think you're a genius?"

"I don't really care," he mumbled, flipping further through the file. Harley's notes were all about drugs and his frontal lobes—whatever that meant—and also she went on for a while about his lack of remorse and incapacity for empathy. She wrote a lot about all the things he'd done to get into Arkham in the first place. Interesting.

"Looks like you're concerned with what I did wrong rather than how great I am," he told her, one eyebrow raising curiously.

Harley smiled, lips pressed together, blue eyes sparkling. "Does it say you're evil or wrong?"

He had to stifle a giggle—oh she _was_ interesting, "No Dr. Harley, I don't believe it does—you don't think I did anything evil?"

"It's not really my place to say you're good or bad. Just that your morals and behavior are strictly psychopathic in nature. You might not be bad but you do lack guilt or empathy. You might not be evil but you try to hurt and control people—anti social behavior. I never said it was right or wrong."

The Joker licked his lips thoughtfully and considered hurting her—just a slap or a kick to knock her down a few pegs, but then he noticed press clippings and his ego soared. Harley told him that made him a narcissist and that was another reason he was a psychopath. Then came the police reports.

"Nothing in his pockets bur knives and lint," he read aloud. "Ooh—I like that."

He closed the file and gave Harley and appraising stare, "Thanks for letting me see that, Harl, it's always nice to know what people think of me."

Harley laughed incredulously, "Oh, please—I'm sorry Mr. Joker—but I really must be going." She stepped up, offering him an apologetic yet grim smile—more like a wince really—and came around the table. "If you'll just let me put your jacket back on."

"You make it sound like it's a fashion statement."

"Whatever gets you through the night," she shrugged, helping him slip his arms in.

The Joker turned on her suddenly, black eyes gazing down, threatening her. For an instant Harley was sure he was going to do something vicious to her—but then he simply licked his lips and leaned against the table casually. "You know—I think I've almost figured you Harl."

She pulled the leather strap tight, her lips pressing together in a half-sneer. "Good evening Mr. Joker." And with that she turned on her heel and snapped out of the room without even the slightest look back.

The Joker frowned, annoyed that she didn't give him more of a reaction. Perhaps he wasn't doing enough to make her head turn—or maybe he was laying it on too thick. He could see something lingering beneath the surface, something to take advantage of. The only question was _how_. Surely she wouldn't have let him out of his canvas and leather prison if she wasn't in the least bit fascinated by him.

He struggled in the straight jacked for a moment. Trying to feel his way around inside or pop joints out of sockets to release himself. With a low growl, he lowered himself onto the small mattress that was supposed to be a 'bed', and then he lay back, thinking about Harley and her obscenely high heels.

X

It was reaching midnight when Harley left the Joker's cell '_You know, I think I've almost figured you out Harl,'_ whatever that was supposed to mean, it still rang in her ears incessantly. She couldn't get it out of her brain as she stormed around the asylum, no longer enjoying having it to herself. She didn't feel like she had it to herself any more—somehow it belonged to him too. With some simple phrasing and odd looks he'd invaded her personal space—her mind—and she did not like it one bit.

Harley ground her teeth together and clutched the Joker's file closer to her chest. She was in control of this—she was the doctor and he was the patient she was protecting from drugs. All it came down to was writing this study—and then writing the subsequent book—and then making millions from promotional book tours and copyright. After enough time had passed maybe they would make a film out of it—just like how Charlize Theron portrayed Aileen Wournos in _Montster_. Maybe Johnny Depp could play the Joker and get an Academy Award for his role.

Harley stopped fantasizing when she came to Crane's door. She slid her key through the space in the wall and typed in the code for his room before slipping inside. The bars shot back into place almost immediately, violently dragging Crane from sleep. He sat up in bed, lost balance because of the straight jacket and then slowly dragged himself up to his full height, trying not to let the humiliation he often felt around Harley show through.

"Harley—whatever can I do for you at this hour?"

"They already gave you Ambian I take it?"

He nodded his head drowsily, the drug had clearly already kicked in as he attempted to speak, "Yes, you'll have to forgive my—my speech might be a bit slurred."

Harley shrugged, "Jonathan you know I don't mind." She came to sit next to him on the bed and laid out the Joker's file between them. Crane's eyes widened considerably.

"This is everything we have on him?"

"And a bit more," Harley nodded enthusiastically. "My useless little intern got her nose in where it wasn't necessarily supposed to be." She paused. "I've just been to see him."

Crane looked up, brow raised only slightly in surprise. "And how did that go?"

Harley hummed for a few minutes, trying to gather her thoughts. "Well, I got him to explain why he can't control his impulses for murder and chaos—but he insists that he can't make plans—he's incapable of decided what a reaction should be so he does what feels natural."

"Murder," Crane said glibly.

"There was a lot philosophizing about good and evil," she continued with a wave of her hand, "I had him look through his file—there was no empathy but also no vanity regarding his crimes— It's impressive really—" she glanced sideways at her partner. "He is almost exactly as he claims to be."

"No one ever is," replied Crane darkly, his lips twisting in disgust.

Harley raised her brow, mildly intrigued. "That was said with a touch of bitterness—the Joker isn't just _anyone_ though is he? He's—He's an enigma or—I don't know." She seemed to struggle for words, searching the padded floor for an answer.

Jonathan felt a swell of anger—towards the Joker or Harley he wasn't sure, but seeing Harley with her lips pressed together and her mind far off on that painted anarchist irritated him to no end. "An enigma?" he repeated bleakly.

She didn't seem to hear him. "I've run through everything in my head a thousand times but I still don't know what it is I'm looking for in him—I just know there's _something_ there. He's brilliant and so complicated—and honest but so manipulative. Something incredibly special and I don't just mean for my own—"

She carried on chatting aimlessly while Crane sat stewing in anger and frustration. _He_ was brilliant—the Joker was a manipulative mental case disguising his illness with faux-intelligence and creativity. No, Jonathan was the brilliant ingenious one.

_You were the one who wreaked real havoc on the city. Fear brings out the real nature of civilization—not some explosives and poorly constructed plans revolving around mob-money._

Jonathan coughed quietly as the voice came unbidden and honest as usual.

_Even in here you're still working, still practicing medicine while your toxin is out there still reminding people of what you did._

"I just don't know where to go with this, Jonathan, and I can't get him out of my head."

_They're all going to think of you like she does unless you do something. Second fiddle to the Joker just because of an expensive Halloween costume. Pretty Harley considers you less important than the Joker. Bitch._

"You're building him up—giving him too much credit—" Jonathan said weakly, trying to focus on Harley's blonde head still bowed and staring at the floor rather than the voice that grew slowly stronger in his mind. She looked up at him and frowned.

_You've let it get too far—you have to do something—look at her—she's walking all over you, using you so she can understand her pet project._

"Are you alright?" she asked, placing her hand on his arm. Jonathan's skin had turned ashen, almost gray and his eyes were darker, narrowed and not entirely focused. He stared at a spot over her shoulder rather than at her face when he stiffly replied that he was fine. Harley reached for her pen light, now concerned.

_She pities you. Thinks you're pathetic sitting in here while she's got the Joker down the hall to enthrall her._

"Jonathan," Harley shone the light in his eyes—his pupils were almost entirely dilated, only a thin ring of blue visible around the dark center. "Jonathan!"

"What!" He barked, neck snapping around to glare into her eyes. He knocked the pen light away and it landed with a soft plop on the padded floors.

_We have to do something—you have to do something. I'm rotting away in here._

He ran a hand over his face anxiously—his forehead cold and clammy with his dark hair plastered flat, obscuring one blackened eye.

Harley waved a hand in front of his face, her frown deep set with concern. "Did you take your pills this morning?" she asked, aware that it sounded patronizing even as she said it.

He only laughed in response. "Did I take my pills this morning? Why—are you _afraid_ of me if I don't take them? Sure, keep him off the drugs so you can sit around and chat but me—no— no—no—" Jonathan trailed off, chuckling to himself as if experiencing some secret joke.

"Jonathan—"

"I'm getting really _bored_, Harley." He turned on her suddenly, examining her face without interest and sighing. "You can be so _boring_. It's funny because you're probably one of the worst of us, hmm? Cut throat bitch and all that." He smirked as her face morphed into anger. "Does being _boring_ frighten you Dr. Quinzel? Does he make you feel less boring? Or do I for that matter?"

"Jonathan—" she practically snarled, "You are having a psychotic break."

He leapt on her then, taking her and himself completely by surprise at the action as he wrestled her onto her back, his hands closing around her throat. "You're out there running around fantasizing about the Joker while I'm in here _listening_ about it—do you have any idea how frustrating that is? _DO YOU_?"

Crane pushed her deeper into the springy mattress, enjoying the rage brewing in Harley's blue eyes as she clawed at his wrists and gasped for air. He was small and not very strong but he managed to keep hold on her throat until her porcelain skin began to turn blue and her flailing limbs became more still. At last he let her go and leaned in close to her gasping face.

"What's that?" He growled.

"Scarecrow." She whispered, coughing and wheezing. They stared at each other for a long time and then Harley unexpectedly and with more tenderness than Jonathan had ever experienced, even from a lover, touched his face, stroking from his perfectly arched brow, along impossibly high cheekbones and over soft, pouting lips. Harley's mouth parted slightly, her pulse racing after nearly being strangled and now staring into the face of a person she'd never seen before.

The Scarecrow had all of Jonathan's features—except they seemed to glow as if something was lit up inside him. As if in his alter ego he had no weaknesses—only anger and disgust—egomania and selfishness—lust and greed—not weaknesses of character but definitions in the Scarecrow.

Harley felt herself pulled in, unable to look away from the Scarecrow's dilated eyes still glittering at her with repugnance yet doing nothing to stop her fingers from tracing over his lips, letting her thumb drag slowly across his lower lip while her breathing slowed to normal. She found herself painfully wishing he would kiss her in that moment—the power radiating off of him so strong it practically burned.

"Scarecrow," she said again, now pulling her hand away and taking in the apprehension and aversion in his face. She wasn't afraid of him but she wasn't an idiot either—he was stronger and more powerful in his alter-ego and if he decided to kill her he easily could.

"Yes," his reply was raspy and very nearly lusty.

Harley touched his soft cheek again, then pulled her fist back and hit him as hard as she possibly could. Blood spurted from somewhere, catching her across the face and he reeled back, clutching his face. Harley used the moment to flee—slipping past and running for the door. The bars slid back and she was out in the stone hallway just in time for Crane—or the Scarecrow to come raging into the Plexiglas window. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth and he was practically spitting with rage.

"I'm sorry!" Harley shouted through steel door before she walked stonily away.

X

Note: So, basically Harley brings the Scarecrow out in Crane. Now that the Joker is influencing her criminality and sanity she's affecting Crane by default. So… how will Crane feel about this I wonder? And how will the Joker respond? And in fact, how will Harley Quinn deal with her friend's crumbling sanity?

Her friend she wants to shag, by the way.

**Please REVIEW!!! **It only takes a second but it really makes writing feel much more worthwhile. I don't just do it for myself, you know?


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